The End Of The World As We Know It
by vballmania23
Summary: The T-Virus has changed most of the population into zombies - but all things considered, life hasn't really changed for Sam and Dean Winchester. Supernatural/Resident Evil crossover. 4th season AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I had this saved on my computer and decided to throw it up. The story is a little disjointed - the way I wrote it, it's supposed to be more like a collection of loosely related drabbles than anything else. So just consider every paragraph a little story in itself. Tell me what you think, and I'll consider continuing if I ever regain my muse. It's MIA at the moment. Title from an REM song, wrote it after I saw the Resident Evil trilogy. Please notify me if you see any spelling/grammar/plot mistakes.

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When they first encounter a zombie, it tries to take a chunk out of Ruby's arm. Dean thinks it's karma, Sam says it's not funny, and Ruby just swears and backhands the SOB so hard she snaps its neck. A few hours later, Ruby's gone and all that's in her place is a shuffling mindless zombie-chick. Apparently, demons and apocalyptic viruses didn't mix well. She had been steadily getting weaker before just doubling over and throwing up the black smoke that was Ruby, then trying to munch on the Winchester brothers. Dean can't help the jolt of vindication that floods his senses as he shoots the former-Ruby zombie clean through the head.

Sam and Dean don't go to Bobby's house for months. They know he's safely tucked away in an isolated (gated) country home with enough weapons to arm a small country and there are other, less well-prepared people scattered through the country that need help. In the first few days, they rescue perhaps a handful. After that, it quickly goes downhill. The Impala leads a run-down convoy of cars with all their tag-alongs towards Bobby's house. They know the hunter won't turn down those that ask for help. They deposit the survivors and reload on weapons and supplies then head back for the open road. Bobby hugs them goodbye; he knows they won't come back if they can help it. There's a country full of dead cannibalistic zombies out there, and they intend to take them down. It's how their daddy taught them, after all.

Dean calls for Castiel every night for a month straight but he never receives an answer. They've all disappeared - angels, demons, spirits, creatures. The supernatural world's just vanished. Sam thinks they're dead; Dean thinks they're just hiding. Sam hypothesizes that the virus has an adverse affect on the supernatural. Ruby was banished from her body after being bitten, he points out. Maybe it worked the same for angels, too. And spirits probably didn't have the strength to appear if their bodies were still up and around. He has an explanation (guess) for everything, a reason for each creature or entity they've faced to up and kick the bucket because of the virus. Dean's just thankful they only have to deal with the zombies for now, and keeps a wary eye out for any signs of return.

It's been a while since the virus outbreak, and nearly everything's died off. What once were fertile fields and forest are now barren. The lakes have dried up, the fish have died, the plants withered. Sam and Dean haven't been to the coastline yet, don't know if the oceans survived, but they're not hopeful. The lands they travel in are now foreign, not quite a desert yet but also nothing near what it used to be. Down south, they imagine, it must be worse.

They've been driving for years through the heartland of America, cleaning out the small towns and isolated roadstops. They don't go near the big cities just yet - it's too crowded, and there are still plenty in the country for them to take down. Sam's taken to driving an oil tanker behind the Impala. It's dead useful when they hit a succession of towns that have already been raided for oil, and they store piles of empty bottles in the passenger seat to use in Molotov Cocktails. Sam tries to convince Dean that he should drive a truck so they'd have more room for supplies and a safer place to sleep. Dean glares and pets his baby, ignoring the dust that covers her and the dents that pepper her body. She's lasted this long, he says. She can last a big longer.

A few weeks later, they go scouting in Chicago. Dean insists it was Sam's idea, hopeful that in a bigger city there would be a bigger chance of survivors. (He still refuses to believe that everybody could be dead. Dean doesn't point out that's what 'apocalypse' means.) They're not even halfway through before the zombies swamp them. Sam's forced to make an impromptu sunroof on the truck to escape the cabin. Dean tosses him a fuse; he dunks one end in the tank and lights the other before leaping onto the roof of the Impala. Dean drives like a bat out of hell, but Sam can feel the explosion in his bones as he clings to the car, thanking every deity he knows that zombies can't bite faster than Dean can drive. Sam listens as Dean hoots and hollers about the explosion for a week, and doesn't ask again about getting a different car.

Dean keeps a stack of state maps in the glove compartment and a red sharpie. Whenever they clean out a place, he carefully unfolds the map and marks it with a big red X. Sam never looks at the maps, because to him they mean just another city where there's no hope of finding a survivor.

Real bullets have run out ages ago. They're using silver, iron, whatever they can get their hands on and melt into bullets. Sometimes they'll even go back to the bodies of the zombies and dig out the metal to melt down and re-cast. Mostly, though, they just use machetes. The calls are closer, risks greater, but at least swords don't risk jamming or running out of ammunition. Sam has tried to make a pike or lance on a few occasions, but they never fit in the car and when he tied them to the top they just fell off.

They have a universal radio in the backseat of the Impala. When it crackles to life with a human voice both brothers jump a foot in the air. Sam's hand shakes as he clicks the button of the walkie-talkie and responds. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean appears to be just as freaked out. The people on the other side nearly cry with joy - they'd also thought that nobody else was alive out there. Incredulity is replaced by hope, then by an overwhelming desire to meet. They quickly exchange locations, decide on a rendezvous. It's a run-down old farm closer to the other people, but Sam and Dean have a car while the others were hiking through the wilderness.

The farm is deserted when they pull up, and Dean quickly kills the purr of the Impala's engine. Sam still wonders how his brother manages to keep his car in such good condition. She's faring better than either brother, and Dean never runs out of spare parts to patch her back together. They quietly slip out of the car through the windows (because in a post-apocalyptic world, it pays to be paranoid and the doors still creak) and scout, guns loaded in one hand while the other twirls a machete. They scour the farm from top to bottom, but there are no signs of life. They sit down on the porch to wait. An hour later, Dean is chomping at the bit and Sam is getting worried. Two hours in, and they head back to the car.

Dean doesn't want anything else to do with the missing survivors, but Sam manages to convince him to at least scout the area where they would have traveled through. They get almost all the way to the next town before stumbling upon an isolated group of zombies. Both brothers are grim as they cut them down and burn the bodies. The survivors had reported five people in their group; they killed twenty-one zombies. "Twenty-one down, 6 billion more to go."

Dean keeps his map of towns; Sam creates a kill-count. They both need something to keep their hopes up, to show that a difference is being made one way or another. Sam reasons that when (if) they meet survivors, they'll want to have a rough estimate of how many zombies are left. The count isn't perfect, of course. Sam can only guess as to the numbers they killed before he started the count, and that guess includes fatalities in their infamous run on Chicago. Despite that, Sam works diligently to record everything he can. When they have time to burn the bodies, he notes down the exact number and location, then takes a rough guess of the date. Dean just shakes his head and sticks with his maps.

When Sam's count reaches a thousand, they take the day off. They overeat on rations and drink some of Dean's carefully hoarded booze. Apparently, the first thing people look to during the apocalypse is alcohol because it's been almost impossible to find any. Neither of them drink enough to warrant a hangover tomorrow, but as a buzzed Sam sings karaoke to an invisible crowd, Dean sits back and thinks maybe the apocalypse just got a bad rep.

("Just do it, Dean.") It was just a routine clean up - just some farming town they were going to stop over and re-supply in before heading out for bigger fish. ("You know I can't, Sammy.") It should have been quick and simple, should have been nothing compared to other places they've already taken down. ("You know what'll happen to me if you don't") Neither brother will admit it, but they both know they got cocky. They split up, searched half-assed, and put their backs to potentially dangerous areas. ("Dammit! I'm not going to shoot my own brother!") As a result, Sam got bit.

Dean won't - can't - shoot his baby brother. Sam understands, but makes him promise to off his body once he's dead. It's not me, Dean. You've seen them. They don't have memories, don't have emotions. They're eating machines. When I'm gone just - just shoot it before it can eat you. Promise me. (Dean hasn't said anything, but the gun digging into his thigh as he drives is loaded with two bullets.) Sam gets worse as Dean drives - just drives, anywhere, everywhere, somewhere else. He keeps up a rambling commentary, tries to get Sam to respond. By hour six, Sam's hallucinating and Dean's fighting to keep himself together. This isn't how he saw them going out.

Hour six crawls into hour seven, then hour eight and nine. Sam's hallucinations have died down and he's fallen into a trance-like state. Dean fears that this might be it. He goes back to a town they've already cleaned out and drags Sam into a motel. They've slept in the car for ages, but he figures they both deserve a rest in a real bed. Dean's so tired - from worrying, from driving, from surviving that he just rolls into the second bed and falls off to sleep. Maybe he'll die, maybe he won't. He can't really find the willpower to care.

Dean wakes up alive, unbitten, and hopeful. Sam's eyes are closed; other then that, there's no change. Dean putters around the hotel room, takes a quick walk outside. He finds a deck of cards and tries to play solitaire, even though the seven of hearts and two of spades are missing. He builds a card house, then draws a target on the wall for knife-throwing practice. He flips through the static on the television, rambling on about all the old shows he used to love even though Sam doesn't respond. He sits and watches Sam breathe, clearing his own mind of thoughts. An entire day wastes away with no change.

Dean is used to action, to driving and hunting and talking and just living. Surviving in a post-apocalyptic zombie world only increased his desire to keep moving. This inaction, this waiting for death is not his style. So when he wakes up the second day and Sam is still comatose on the other bed, Dean decides enough is enough. He packs the bags, ransacks the motel, and loads the car before barging back into their motel room. "Sam!" Dean yells as he kicks the mattress with one booted foot. "Rise and shine!" His grin is a mile wide as Sam, groggy but still Sam, blearily raises his head, opens his mouth to retort, and pukes all over the floor.

A week later, the bite wound has faded. It's going to scar, and Dean teases him relentlessly. "You know, the next girl you pick up is going to think you have some really weird fetishes, Sammy-boy." Sam huffs but doesn't say anything, because they're both relieved that Sam's even around to be teased. Later, though, as the night speeds by on the open road, Sam can't help wondering why. Why didn't the virus affect him?

It's been a while since they've seen any animal life. They disappeared early on, hiding from the zombies. Dean says they're smart buggers. Sam wishes they would come back. Neither of them even thought of the possibility of the infection spreading across species until they stumble upon a zombified Chihuahua. Dean thinks it's funny until the rest of the pack comes yipping around the corner. Sam laughs his ass off for a week at how Dean jumped in fright. Dean grumbles good-naturedly because it's just good to have his brother back, even though the bite happened a while ago and has faded into a strange-looking scar.

Dean wants to try their luck at another big city - maybe not as populated as Chicago, but something more substantial than what they've been taking on. He plans for weeks before talking to Sam, choosing a target and raiding a truckstop for a map of the city. It takes a few days to talk Sam around, but eventually he wins out and they drive to an army supply warehouse they'd stumbled upon a few years after the outbreak. They pick up a Hummer and another oil tanker, stockpiling the car with explosives and extra firepower. Sam refuses to pack a flamethrower ("Seriously, Dean, isn't blowing up another tanker enough?") but relents enough to allow the grenade launcher. He'll never admit it, but Sam also thinks grenade launchers are pretty damn cool.

They spend another month planning the attack, arguing over strategy and tactics. They double-check the explosives and quality of the weapons, fill up the tanker past full. Sam scrounges up some waterproof containers tucked away in a corner of the facility that they stuff with dynamite and sink into the tanker. Dean's eyes light up like a five-year-old when he even thinks about the explosion their new and improved tanker-bomb will cause. They cover the Hummer with sturdy metal meshing that will let bullets pass but keep out snapping teeth and weld sharp metal scraps to the front and sides. They practice driving the Hummer and tanker in tandem, and Sam practices jumping onto the roof and climbing inside through the new sunroof. He argued that it was Dean's turn to drive the suicidal truck; Dean insists that he's the better driver, not to mention Sam's impervious to zombie bites. Finally, all the plans are smoothed out and the two-man invasion is ready.

Dean stops the Hummer once they crossed the state line and sinks backwards into the seat. Smoke is still rising behind them, and Dean wouldn't be surprised if Bobby is sitting outside his house looking at the black clouds of smoke and cursing them to hell. He can practically hear Bobby's voice muttering about 'idjits' and headstrong psychotic Winchesters. His heart is still racing, and judging from how twitchy Sam is he's not the only one. "Never again." Sam's voice is strained with nerves and adrenaline. Dean just sighs in exasperated agreement and slumps to the side. They sit there for twenty minutes until they feel back in control, and then Dean starts up the car again and heads for the Impala. "You know, Sammy," he says as the sun begins sinking below the horizon and the road stretches before them in the glare of the headlights, "That was one hell of a fight." Sam's laugh is strangled and he shifts to give Dean a straight-on glare. "Never. Again." Dean chuckles and keeps driving.

When they get back to the army warehouse and the Impala, Sam goes straight to the glove box. He digs out Dean's maps and his own kill-count, and both men lean against the hood of the Impala to write. Dean marks a thick blue X (the red marker ran out a while ago) while Sam tries to come up with a plausible estimate of kills before giving up and just taking the incident out of the count and scribbling something else down. Dean snags the journal before Sam closes it, and laughs_. Blew up half the city, shot the rest. I think the grenade launcher was overkill, though. Best guess of numbers: a shitload._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Hah! It's done! I've been working on this sporadically for two weeks, but never had any time to actually sit down and write anything substantial until today. And bonus - I do believe a plot-like substance is beginning to form from the quagmire that is my story. Please excuse my geography, though. It's sketchy at best. As usual, if you see anything amiss, please notify me.

* * *

Dean needs a change of scenery. He's always been a rambler, not to mention they still have no idea how half the country turned out. They've been kept busy in the north and Midwest, driving between the foothills of the Appalachians and the Rockies, but after a particularly cold day in Minnesota-almost-Canada Dean resolutely turns the Impala's nose south with a pointed glare and Sam just shrugs. A zombie is still a zombie, and he's sure there will be plenty in Texas as there were in Iowa.

They work their way down to the military warehouse, first. No matter how many times they swing in and clear the place out, a few more stiffs always manage to wander through it. Prudence dictates they carefully sweep the place for zombies, first, but then they get down to business. The restocking trip was Sam's idea; he wants to bring along the hummer, as well as the last boxes of ammo their earlier raid had turned up. They've become experts at turning most everything into weapons, but it's always good to bring along the real stuff just in case.

At the warehouse, Sam gives the hummer a tune-up. Dean loads the weapons. He's better with cars, but he called dibs on packing. One way or another, the flamethrower _will_ be coming along.

Sam doesn't care where they go, so Dean decides on Florida. "Come on," he says. "All those old people down there? The zombies won't be able to move without walkers." Sam laughs at the mental image. "I guess it's hard to bite someone without your dentures." Dean grins and snaps his fingers. "Exactly, it'll be the easiest job we've ever had. Besides, I want to check out Disneyland; I hear it's not very crowded, this time of year."

The route they plan crosses the Appalachians early, and hugs the coast down to Florida. It'll be a straight shot east then south. The plan works, until they unfurl the map to look for major roadways that pass through the mountains that would still be in relatively good shape. Most of the best options cross over near New York, Boston and D.C.; all heavily populated places that neither brother is willing to go to without a supply of Molotov cocktails and a nice homemade bomb. So instead they plan a route that goes through the shadows of the Appalachians for a time, then rushes for the coast before meandering down to Florida.

Their costal detour will cost them a day, but Dean wants to see what happened to the oceans. He always loved getting jobs on the coast, just so he could see the waves as he worked. He still dreams of the salty sea air ruffling his jacket and the soft whoosh of waves slapping the shore.

Sam gets a funny look on his face as he looks at the map of the country, idly tapping his pointer finger on the dot marked Washington D.C. "Do you think the president's a zombie?" Dean stills. "You know, I never thought of that. All those politicians probably got snacked on first. Nothing says I wish I didn't vote for you like a zombie bite." Both brothers pause to contemplate the idea. It's never really occurred to them that there isn't _some_ sort of government, even after the apocalypse. Before the virus, things like voting and politicians were a strange concept, an abstract existence at best. The events in their lives never affected those in D.C., so when the apocalypse happened they never gave a thought to all the big-wigs in Washington.

After Dean shifts his world view to accept the fact that there really isn't any government whatsoever, his second thought is, "We should have an election." Sam snorts. "Of the land of Winchester? No thanks." He throws a handful of dirt at Dean's smirking face. The elder Winchester is undeterred. "Well, if you're abstaining from voting, that means I vote myself to the office of president. And my first act is to declare pie the national dessert." Sam looks decidedly unhappy at his brother's newfound position.

The further south they get, the worse the desert is. The North was arid scrubland, but still marginally alive. There were a few hardy bushes and shrubs that managed to survive, and rain was a semi-rare occasion. In the South, however, it's the definition of wasteland. They drive past acres and acres of what used to be green farmlands. Now it's desert, shifting sands drifting over the decrepit grain silos and barns that loom up from the flat landscape. "Dean, do you think this is what the Dust Bowl looked like in the great Depression?" Dean looks up at the searing sun, the vast emptiness that spreads for miles, the complete abandonment. "No." he says. "I think this is worse."

Even the zombies appear in worse shape, the further south they get. Huge lesions eat away at their leathery skin as the sand scrapes and tears at them. The sun bakes them slowly, sapping away their energy and evaporating what's left of their bodily fluids. Now, more than ever, they appear to be rotting from the inside out. It gives the Winchesters a strange sort of hope. Every day they fight, the zombies disintegrate a little more. Maybe one day, they'll all just die entirely – nature accomplishing what 6.8 billion people couldn't. Even if they aren't around to see the last zombie destroyed by the elements, it's a comforting thought.

They've stopped somewhere in Eastern Tennessee for the night when the dream hits. It's nothing specific; a row of run-down cars parked in desert terrain, an abandoned city, a sign that reads 'Welcome to Mississippi." He jerks awake with a gasp, a horrible feeling sinking his stomach that has nothing to do with jerking awake right into the steering wheel of the Hummer. The Impala is parked less than six inches away, and Sam simply kicks reinforced window bars with a booted foot. The actual window is rolled down, just like the driver's side window of the Impala, so that any approaching zombie would hopefully be heard before it attacked. Since the apocalypse, sound travels easily in the silent days and nights.

The bars provide a satisfying metallic rattle and Dean is up and awake immediately, dagger in hand. "We have to go to Nevada." Dean looks at Sam in confusion. "Why-" Sam meets Dean's gaze with a meaningful look, and Dean's lips tighten. Even after years of disuse, it's hard to forget your brother's _I just had a vision and we fucking need to get there NOW _face "Trust me, Dean. We have to go." Sam turns the key in the ignition and heads west. Dean is driving right behind him.

They drive for the rest of the night. They drive the entire day. They drive halfway into the next night. Sam relentlessly pushes them further south, stepping on the gas pedal until it hits the floor. He hasn't looked at a map, but he knows where to go; it's a feeling in his gut, as accurate as any compass. _Go south. Go west. Hurry. _

Eventually, the brothers have to stop. The Hummer is running low on fuel, and their eyes are sticky with lack of sleep. Sam scowls as Dean starts their camp ritual. Dean just ignores him and keeps on scratching the protection sigils into the gritty earth. (He doesn't know whether it qualifies as sandy soil or soil-y sand.) They're useless against zombies, but it's like a safety blanket that they can never quite fall asleep without. Today, he also adds a devil's trap. Sam's abilities were always connected to demons. Old Yellow Eyes has died, but who's to say that somebody new hasn't taken up the reins and decided to mess with Sam again?

After Dean's satisfied with the traps, he grabs a small shovel out of the Impala and digs a pit for the fire. Near the edge of the camp but still within the protection lines, he also digs a latrine. In total, the time it takes to set up their camp is short. It's still as comforting as any routine they had when things like motels were still in business.

Once Sam stops pouting long enough to drag out their mismatched pots and start cooking what will pass for dinner, Dean starts rummaging around in the Impala's glove box. "Hey, Sam," he calls. "Where's that pen thing you used to draw a devil's trap on the Impala?" Sam doesn't know where it's gone, but Dean doesn't stop until he finally unearths it from beneath the back-seat floor mat. He then covers every inch of the Impala with protection sigils. Sam calls out a few suggestions while he suspiciously examines what might have once been canned spam. They argue good-naturedly about how to draw certain runes. Neither one bothers to look in the few books they have stored in the Impala's gun compartment. (They're just another thing that's hard to forget once you've done it a hundred times.)

They stop to eat, and then Dean sets to work on the Hummer. The cars look like they belong in some devil-worshiping horror film, but neither brother cares. Who's left to judge, anyways?

In a way, both brothers are morbidly grateful that the virus spread so rapidly. Most stores were raided or broken into in the early days, but homes are stocked with emergency rations, batteries, tanks of gas, clothes, toiletries, tool, and any other item the brothers seem to require. Had the outbreak taken months to kill most of the population, or even years, the danger of starvation and lack of supplies would have become an issue long ago. That's not to say there aren't lean periods – sometimes they drive through a swath of houses that have already been raided, or a place that's good for hunting zombies but has too many to risk a stop – but there are enough supplies squirreled away in basements and storage facilities to see them through a hundred years. (Neither brother says that they'll expect to actually _need _rations for more than a decade or so.)

In the morning, Sam wants to take off right away. "You know there's a time limit on these things." Dean juts out his chin stubbornly and doesn't give up the keys. "You're not helping anybody roaring off like a bat outta hell." It's been so long the h-word doesn't bring up bad memories of fire and torture and demons. Dean would consider that progress, except he hasn't really gotten over it. It's just there are more important things. Like staying alive in a world full of zombies. He doesn't have time or energy to waste being afraid of a word or of things that are over and done with.

After a Dean-enforced breakfast, the elder Winchester digs out his maps of the country. He looks over them, trying to find the best route to Mississippi. Sam, normally a passive participant, paces impatiently. "It's not like there's anything for us to hit out there, Dean. We can just drive in a straight line." After Dean points out that cars can't drive over rivers (namely, the Tennessee River that they're about a hundred miles from), Sam grudgingly settles down. Dean ignores him and plots their course around all major and moderate-sized cities.

Dean leads today. "Dude, your gas mileage efficiency sucks. If we're not stopping, we've got to make what we have last. And to do _that, _we have to maximize the number of miles we can get per gallon. So I'm leading." It's a bullshit argument; neither of them gives a shit about mileage efficiency. If they did, they wouldn't be driving a monster of an Impala and a Hummer. Not to mention, their planned route goes through at least one fill-up joint a day. Odds are half of them will be empty, but that still leaves plenty of fuel (plus their emergency tanks stored in the back seats) to use. Sam shrugs and lets Dean take the lead anyways, because it's what his older brother always does.

Dean drives in the crippling heat of southern USA, window down, hair blowing in the breeze, and humming Metallica off-key. If it weren't for the bars on the window, it could almost pass as a normal pre-zombie day. He checks the side mirror, and Sam's barreling behind him in the truck. It's mostly desert, so Dean just veers off their imagined road and slows down until he and Sam are even. "Sam!" He bellows over the wind and the twin growling of engines. "Wanna race?" Sam glances at the empty desert in front of them, then back at his brother; Dean's face is split into a huge grin, and he roars ahead for a second before falling back, even with Sam's truck again. Sam glances out at the desert once more and stomps on the gas. Dean's right behind, then pulls ahead, laughter echoing back to his younger brother.

That night, it finally rains. It's a thunderstorm – huge and slightly terrifying, even for them. It announces its presence in the dead of night with a huge peal of thunder. (Sam jerks awake into the steering wheel, yet again. Dean just bolts awake) Rain quickly follows after that, pounding against the cars with a vengeance. The lightning flashes. With no buildings or ambient light, they can see every forked bolt dance across the sky. It's beautiful yet instinctually terrifying. The wind howls and rocks the cars, threatening to flip them sideways but never quite following through. Neither brother sleeps well in the chaos of sound and light. Finally, Sam risks a five-second dash to the Impala so they can sit in the front seat at watch the fury of nature.

The next morning, the huge puddles quickly evaporate and the clouds roll out as fast as they came. Any evidence of rain vanishes by the time the sun is at full strength, and the land is once again almost a desert.

They're picking over a small fill-up joint that would still in the middle of nowhere if the virus hadn't struck. They add to their hoards of breakfast bars, M&M's, water bottles, energy drinks, dried jerky, salt, weapons, and canned foods. As they're walking out with everything, Sam pauses before the register. He snags a couple of packs of batteries. Dean gives him a weird look. He shrugs. "I don't know. Just thought we might need them soon." It's just another feeling that has been itching at him since the vision.

What they can't fit into their cars and what won't spoil in the dirt, they bury. A crudely etched devil's trap on a large rock is half-buried in the sand above it. Dean marks their cache on his maps and Sam makes a note of it in his journals. If they ever swing by here again, they know where to get it. They have caches like this stored throughout the country, peppered around the roads they're most likely to drive through another time.

"We haven't used that thing for months now. Why do you suddenly need to turn it on _now_?" Sam stops fiddling with the universal radio. He sighs. "I don't know. It's just – a feeling. Like we're going to need it." Dean stares. He knows his brother enough to fill in the blanks. "Like there might be some people down here that have survived this long." Sam tears open a pack of batteries and refuses to meet his brother's gaze. "Yeah, maybe." Silence descends on their camp. Finally, Dean sighs. "Look, I know you want to think there are more people out there. But, Sammy – we haven't found any survivors for years. Shit, you saw how many people lived past the first month. If – _if _they managed to survive the first wave, chances are, they're either dead by now or secured away somewhere where we can't get to them." Sam ducks his head and just keeps messing with the radio. Dean sighs, and goes for a walk.

_Rrrawwrrrrgahhhhh…. Mmmmnnnooooppphhh…_ "Son of a bitch!" Dean bolts upright for the third night in a row, swearing a blue streak. "Can't a man get any damn _sleep_!" The lone zombie inching its way towards them groans again. Dean purposefully grabs his machete and opens the Impala doors.

Five minutes later, Dean's back in his car and grumbling as he tries to find a comfortable position. Sam snickers as he salts and burns the body. The flames will draw other zombies, but it's close enough to dawn that they'll be long gone before any substantial numbers come calling. And if any more come before sunrise – Sam snickers again. ("Dude. Shut. Up. _Now.")_


End file.
